Holiday in DR Congo - (Part 2) Mbandaka to Kinshasa by plane

I arrived in Mbandaka on Tuesday, after travelling by river the 500 km from Basankusu. Mbandaka is a large town in the west of the Democratic Republic of Congo; it’s right on the Equator and on one of the world’s biggest rivers, the River Congo.

After checking in at the sisters’ maison de passage and then getting a better offer at the Brothers of the Sacred Heart, I called my contact who was buying a plane ticket for me, Alain. He said he would call by the next day with the ticket. Engineer Dally, who I’d travelled with, called me out for a drink and the next thing I knew we were speeding through the streets of Mbandaka on the back of a taxi-motorbike. Clarisse Iwewe, the daughter of a friend and originally from Basankusu, joined us and we chatted, relaxed and in general passed a pleasant evening together.

Brother Sylvain in Mbandaka. He is a religious Brother of the Sacred Heart.

Monday, I had a traditional breakfast with the brothers – I’m saying “the brothers” as if there were lots of them; in fact, there was only one brother, Brother Sylvain, and his aspirant. … so, just two of them. Breakfast was rice pudding as a watery sort of porridge with some ground peanuts mixed in – fresh bread was there to dunk into it … just the ticket!

Engineer Dally had been given a place just across the yard in the diocesan procure, but food wasn’t included. I joined him across the street in a little diner attached to the Hotel Karibu (which means welcome in Swahili). It overlooked the River Congo and so we enjoyed the view, with more canoes arriving, just like ours from yesterday, and bigger boats, too. I decided not to take photos of the river – it might have attracted the unwelcome attention of the authorities looking for money.

My plane-ticket arrived, delivered personally by Alain, and then Dally and I went out for lunch, calling in on two of the Sisters of St Theresa from Basankusu our way. Lunch was at a restaurant, set in a gazebo, called the Three Sisters. It was very nice, with large portions of grilled fish, cassava leaves and semolina (fufu); the price was low, too, compared to what we would have to pay in Kinshasa. A steady stream of hawkers wandered through the gazebo … very much at home and known by the women serving the food. They sold a variety of things, one sold shoes while another sold fruit, and so on …

" It was a relaxing hour or two, doing nothing except talking. I brought my camera out and Clarisse took great pleasure in posing for photos with us all." - Clarisse posing with Engineer Dally

When we got back, we sat and chatted in front of the brothers’ place. It seemed a bit strange to see five or six cows wandering about in the grounds in front of us … a legacy, no doubt, of the missionaries that established the parish. Clarisse Iwewe came to visit but took some persuading to walk past the cows. I don’t think she’d ever seen such creatures before. It was a relaxing hour or two, doing nothing except talking. I brought my camera out and Clarisse took great pleasure in posing for photos with us all.

Tuesday morning, Brother Sylvain kindly knocked on my door at 5:45 so I wouldn’t miss 6 o’clock mass at the cathedral (thanks ...!). After mass, I examined my ticket and noticed that the price written on it said $180. I’d sent $285, so I phoned Alain to see about getting the difference refunded. He told me not to worry and he would sort it out at the airport. Hmmm … I smelled a rat.

Engineer Dally had finally got a ticket paid for by Basankusu Diocese and would be on the same plane as me. Mademoiselle Jeanne-Marie Abanda, who has helped me before when I’ve passed through Mbandaka, said she would send a jeep to take us both to the airport in the afternoon. Jeanne-Marie is a lay-person who runs the Caritas office in Mbandaka.

After bags were packed and goodbyes had been said, we set of fashionably late for the airport, which is only twenty minutes’ drive away.

The usual mayhem began in earnest. Soldiers on the gate started to demand money for entering the airport grounds – one of our co-passengers was an army officer and he argued that Caritas didn’t need to pay. They eventually let us pass. At the door to the airport a group of young men clambered about and started to take my bags. “I’ll carry my own bags!” I commanded. One of the group turned to face me … it was Alain, the one who’d got me my ticket. I relaxed a little and allowed them to continue.

We went inside the small airport building. 

The room was absolute bedlam. Passengers checking-in formed a heaving mass of bodies pushing towards the check-in desk. Voices were raised to create an overwhelming din and in the dizzying mêlée I found my passport, ticket and cabin-baggage being taken from me by Alain’s people. What is going on? I didn’t ask for anyone to give me special treatment here but I felt helpless to stop it happening. Sitting behind a trestle-table were five uniformed men from the RVA (Régies de voie aérienne), or airport police, no doubt looking for easy prey. 

Behind another trestle-table five uniformed health officials. Yellow Fever vaccination cards need to be shown on entry to the country, but someone with nothing better to do, in some government department, decided they would employ people to check the these cards at every airport. Congolese travellers didn’t seem to be asked, but in any case, Congolese people tend to have the vaccination card without having had the injection. They demanded 1,000 Congolese Francs for the privilege of looking at my card – I refused … I’d already paid airport tax, regional tax, tax within my ticket … and now they wanted more tax. They pulled a receipt book out of a drawer as if it was a novelty. I still refused and, as my ticket was taken in one direction by Alain’s helpers, and my case was taken in another direction, I tried to go through the door into the area for passengers. The door was guarded by a policeman. One of the health people called out to the policeman, “Stop him, he hasn’t paid!” I smiled at the policeman, said, “Excuse me,” and he held the door open for me, ignoring the official.

Outside the building, facing the runway, there was an area of plastic chairs and tables as an impromptu café area. I sat down and was soon joined by Dally. One of Alain’s workers called me back into the building to see the dreaded DGM, or immigration officials. I waited a while and was finally called in and asked to show my passport and visa, to give my occupation – missionary – and reason for travel – holiday – and that was that.

Kishasa: Visiting an old friend from Basankusu, Cathy, who now lives in Kinshasa. Here with her parents who had come to stay for a while.

We sat outside for another thirty minutes or so. One of Alain’s people came and explained that they’d taken $30 for mine and Dally’s airport tax; he returned $20 and said there was another $50 to come … but they would return that through a transfer agency on Saturday. (Saturday came and went … I’m still waiting)

Apart from the near stampede getting onto the Airbus 320, and cringing when I was called to the front of the queue ahead of everyone else, the flight was to a high standard. They even had an alternative snack for non-meat eating me … a cheese baguette. We landed in Gemena first and then travelled back down the country to Kinshasa, where Nene had arranged for a driver to meet me.

" ... I was welcomed into the civilised world of high precision wonky and ill-fitting fixtures and a sophisticated level of poor workmanship in all things. The big city is part decaying colonial town, more than half shanty-town, and a growing proportion modern buildings. "

Having left the forest behind, I was welcomed into the civilised world of high precision wonky and ill-fitting fixtures and a sophisticated level of poor workmanship in all things. The big city is part decaying colonial town, more than half shanty-town, and a growing proportion modern buildings. There’s no McDonalds yet and pizza is only available to the select few at $18 a shot. But this is also the place where I have a growing number of friends: friends from years ago in Basankusu, and friends I’ve made in recent years through my work for our environmental group. Somehow I feel at home here and intend to relax and have some fun.

Plenty of work ... even on holiday. Here, RCEN, the journalists Civil Society collective have their national meeting at our Kintambo office.

Very soon, however, I would find myself at work again. Procuring visas for visiting UK journalists from Breakthrough Media, teaching our environmental group members to use conditional formulas in bookkeeping spreadsheets (don’t ask!), and helping to procure wheelchair-bikes for disabled people back in Basankusu, would be jobs I would find myself doing over the first few days of my stay.

There will still be time over the next seven weeks to relax. Eating in an open-air restaurant in the shade of a palm-thatched shelter … perhaps on the banks of the River Congo (the same river that passes through Mbandaka), perhaps with a glass of beer … or two, is all to look forward to.

I’m on holiday, alleluia!